


I kiss the air, believing it's you.

by cortchuzska



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 02:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p class="intro">
  <em>No matter what happened, Tyrion had the satisfaction of knowing that he'd kicked Lord Tywin's plans to splinters.</em>
</p><p class="intro">
<em>I mean to find a new husband for Cersei. Oberyn Martell perhaps, once I convince Lord Tyrell that the match does not threaten Highgarden. And it is past time you were wed. The Tyrells are now insisting that Margaery be wed to Tommen, but if I were to offer you instead —.</em>
</p><p>
What if Lord Tywin gets Jaime to free Tyrion before the trial by combat, Jaime marries Margaery, Cersei Oberyn, Loras is the new Lord Commander, and everybody lives on more or less happily ever after, according to Lord Tywin's wise plans?
</p><p>
Chap. 8: Myrcella on her wedding day</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Father and sons

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as Integer, that was just a short drabble; then I added a chapter, and now is growing into an AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _No matter what happened, Tyrion had the satisfaction of knowing that he'd kicked Lord Tywin's plans to splinters. If Prince Oberyn won, it would further inflame Highgarden against the Domish; Mace Tyrell would see the man who crippled his son helping the dwarf who almost poisoned his daughter to escape his rightful punishment. And if the Mountain triumphed, Doran Martell might well demand to know why his brother had been served with death instead of the justice Tyrion had promised him. Dome might crown Myrcella after all._
> 
> Lord Tywin is having none of it, and gets Jaime to free Tyrion to avert the trial by combat

 

“My Lord Hand.” Jaime stood clad in his whites across his father's desk, who raised his eyes from the papers he was riffling.

“I didn't send for the Lord Commander, but for Jaime _Lannister_.” He briskly beckoned him to sit.

Jaime took seat warily, without uttering a word. If his no longer father had sent for _him_ , troubles – big angry ones – were at hand.

“Your sister is a fool. Clegane! What was she thinking, I ask you?” His hands curled into fists.

“Cersei is the Queen, and I'm not privy to Her Grace's counsel.” Jaime replied coldly.

“And your brother is even foolisher. Trial by combat, what a jape. How can he hope...” He steepled his fingers over his brow. “Kevan offered him the Night's Watch, on my behalf. Had I sent you; you would have stood a better chance to convince him.” His father stared at him. “You don't believe him guilty, do you?”

“I doubt it. It was Sansa Stark, if you ask me: the little dove took flight. So conveniently disappeared; and she had every reason to do it.”

“Every reason; maybe. Yet she couldn't do it, and less take flight unnoticed, alone.”

“Ser Dontos disappeared as well; who owns him? That's your answer.” Jaime tapped his golden hand on the desk.

“The latest to pay for his wine. Your path is leading nowhere: as likely, he got caught in a drunken brawl at the Flea Bottom, and ended up in a bowl of brown.”

“The question is: who would profit from it?” Jaime mused. “Stannis Baratheon. The marriage was needed to seal Highgarden allegiance; without, the Tyrrels could as easily switch side next time; it wouldn't be the first time either. Besides, her father Eddard Stark supported Stannis's claim; and even Renly, who was in his way, was murdered, a very timely and highly dubious death as well.”

“You are no fool, if you just care to stop and think; I might even agree.” Lord Tywin paused. “Be it as it may, who murdered Joffrey is not my most pressing concern now.”

Jaime glared. “What's then? Why did you summon me?”

“Thanks to your brother’s and your sister’s madness – Her Grace, if you like it best, my Lord Commander – whichever our enemies are, and whatever their plans, they'll work even better now. Prince Oberyn wants Clegane's head, a head I had no intention of granting him, and Lord Mace the Imp's one; and whichever the trial outcome, we will have the Martells and the Tyrells, our doubtful allies, at each other's throat.”

“Which one should I better champion for: Tyrion, or my sweet sister? What would you have me do, father?”

“How very droll.” Lord Tywin glowered at him. “None of them. There will be no trial by combat.”

“How could that be?”

“Set Tyrion free. Tonight. ” His father stated, rather than commanded. “He must leave Westeros.”

“You can't mean it.” Jaime was dumbfounded. “Do you want me to storm the Black Cells gates with my White brethren?”

“I didn't call for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Didn't you break loose twice from Riverrun? Make him sneak away. Your sister is welcome to squawk as much as she likes. The Tyrrels will cry out for vengeance aloud; but I'll found a way to placate them.”

“That's job for Littlefinger, or Varys. You'd better ask them.”

“Would you have me ask the Lord of Whisper to free my son? Don't be ridiculous; I could as well have the small council to sign a royal warrant. Besides, I don't trust any of them. The Hand of the King must have no hand in it. I don't even need to know how you did.”

“Keeping your hands clean as always, father?”

“It's the only way you can save your brother; or do you really think Oberyn Martell could win Ser Gregor? If so, you are even foolisher than both your siblings. Not even you on your heyday could. Tyrion is your task: haven’t you always been eager for action? It will fall upon me to deal with Highgarden and Sunspear.”

It turned out soon that Jaime and Cersei Lannister would be the ripe plums with which Tywin Lannister meant to keep the Tyrells and the Martells sweet.


	2. Brother and Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _I love you. I love you. I love you.”_
> 
> “ _I love you too, sweet sister.”_

“You too, Jaime. Even you are leaving me. For the Rock; and it was me who raised you to the office of Lord Commander.”

“I didn't ask for either.”

_The Rock; and Tommen._

“Not to mention that pretty wife of yours: so very pretty, and so very Tyrell. Aren't you glad Littlefinger wedded your Lysa?”

“If only you...”

“That would be madness.” Cersei cut him off.

“Swords won the Iron Throne once; swords could keep it still.”

“Not _yours_ , anymore; even if it once unmade a king.”

An old argument, so many times discussed, none of them yielding ground, they didn't even need to explain their reasons any longer. A dance too many time danced; a fight, too long fought, when both foes already knows each other's moves, every tricks, and skill gives way to weariness, and battle fire to boredom. Swords clang dulls, and their point lowers, till they rest wheezing on hilts, and level eyes, and cannot remember what are they fighting for. Then they blindly go at each other once more, with no hope for win, to weak for a final lunge, but still trying to hurt.

She was wounded; and her words were meant to wound.

In his throes, trudging to reach King's Landing, he had hoped, once there, everything would be over, everything would be perfect, everything would be as it was meant to be: his father Hand; his son King; and no one else ever between Cersei and him, no husband to hide from or to climb her bed, no crack in their wholeness. That hope had kept him going, had kept him alive.

Instead, he had lost not only his hand, but his other self: he had lost his whole self, and Jaime could no longer bear King's Landing, the part he was supposed to play at court, the way he was ordered about by his father, his sister, and everyone who cared, the small council he had to attend as Lord Commander, the new brothers he had found and the old one he had lost.

“I had enough of lies, secrets, King's Landing and broken oaths.”

“Now you sound a tight-laced bigot the likes of cousin Lancel. How funny; he has always tried to be like you.”

“What would you have of me, Cersei? I have still something to sort, before I set off for the West.” Jaime wearily replied.

“Which of your sworn brethren are you taking with you, to protect Tommen?”

“Don't worry: you can keep your precious Kettles, I have no need of them. I am the Lord of the Rock, remember? There are sellswords aplenty I can afford to hire, and they will serve just as fine.”

“The Kettlebacks are most devout to me, faithful and obedient. As every member of the Kingsguard should be.” Only Cersei could be so sanctimoniously poisonous.

 _And I am not._ For lack of anything better to target him, Aerys would serve, always and forever: the last Targaryen would plague him to the end of his day. _Even you, sweet sister._ Jaime let it go, he had no wish to remember his last moments with her as just another petty quarrel.

She pressed on. “Which else, then?”

“None. I'm older in the trade than any of my brethren, and no one could be more earnestly committed to Tommen's safety.”

“With only a hand: the wrong one, the less apt up to actually protect him as well. I want able-bodied men around my son. You must take Ser Loras; Tommen likes him, and your little rose will be pleased. They are so close: just like we were... Well, _almost_ like us.” She tilted back her head, gave a throaty laugh, squinting at him.

_That's why Loras Tyrell is getting on my nerves, and I'll gladly let him in King's Landing: he is too much like me, and I don't like being reminded every moment of the boy I was. I have already to face the man I became._

“I've already seen to it. I'm no longer a Kingsguard, nor a member of the small council, as their Lord Commander. I'm my own man, now, and I don't serve at your pleasure any more, Your Grace: for once, I'll choose my men. Ser Rose should better stay here: the Kingsguard needs a new commander, and Loras already knows the job, as Lord Commander of Renly's Kingsguard.”

“The Rainbow Guard? A mockery of a guard, for a mockery of a king.”

“Arys is in Dorne. Your Kettle is a mock knight: I will not even take him into consideration. What would you rather have as Lord Commander? Boros, a sack of suet, and more craven than most, or Meryn, as stupid as cruel? ”

“Can you count only up to five, brother, since you lost a hand? You left out Ser Balon Swann. It's not for you, to decide upon the next Lord Commander.”

“As such I got no word in my new brethren you chose; far be it from me to presume I could suggest Your Grace my own successor. I only hoped you would trust me, and give heed to my own experience. I'm not that fond of him, I agree he is at best an arrogant prick, yet Loras is the one most suited to the role, with a sword is almost as good as I was, and he could restore the Kingsguard prestige of old.”

_And better fitted to withstand your wiles, and forestall your foolishness, than I could ever hope to be._

“Be a good sister, Cersei: twins like us should part everything. I already have my share of Renly's roses, Ser Loras is yours by rights.”

“You are already besotted with your little flower, it's plain. Just a scent of rose petals and a taste of cunt could get men do pretty much everything.” She stormed out the Lord Commander's room in a rage.

_Was it the way of it, with your Kettles? Sweet sister, whence did you get the misbegotten notion that letting them into your smallclothes would melt them into a puddle of loyalty, and earn yourself their unending devotion? Was it me, I fear? You are not the only whore in King's Landing, and come morrow they will turn their back on you._


	3. Betrothed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"A duty to House Lannister. You are the heir to Casterly Rock. That is where you should be. Tornmen should accompany you, as your ward and squire. The Rock is where he'll learn to be a Lannister, and I want him away from his mother. I mean to find a new husband for Cersei. Oberyn Martell perhaps, once I convince Lord Tyrell that the match does not threaten Highgarden. And it is past time you were wed. The Tyrells are now insisting that Margaery be wed to Tommen, but if I were to offer you instead — "_

#### Jaime

“You'd better name a new Lord Commander as soon as I leave, if not Ser Loras any squire randomly picked would do, before my sister fills the vacancy with someone from her batch of lickspittles, catspaws, and rabid dogs.”

“Rashness. As always, your worst fault. Learn how to wait, Jaime. Loras Tyrell is too valuable a chip not to be played at his full worth. And he will be soon enough.” The ghost of an icy smirk, both threatening and satisfied, briefly appeared on his countenance. “By now, his lord father is happy enough in believing _he_ prevailed upon _me_ to bestow you the Rock.”

For a certainty, Mace Tyrell talking Tywin Lannister into anything was such a nonsensical occurrence that only a fool could ever dream of it.

“Who did manage to persuade you, then?”

“I didn't need to be. It is plain, for any man with eyes to see, that in the present plight we need a strong Hand in King's Landing, as well as a strong Warden in the Westerlands. I'm taking no chance. The Lannisters will not suffer the lot of Robb Stark, a green boy undone by his own victories: for spreading too widely his forces, he won everything, and lost his own.”

“So this was your game: let Mace Tyrell believe he won more than he actually did. What for? Why didn't you told me, at least?”

“You wouldn't have been that convincing; I couldn't see a reason to let you know. Lord Mace loves to think himself far cleverer than he actually is, and there is no harm in humouring from time to time an ally of ours with inconsequential flatteries costing us nothing. The Tyrells support is paramount. Speaking of pleasing Highgarden: see to make her happy.” ordered his father. “I will not have Sansa Stark's moping look on your lady wife; I want her to smile, and broadly.”

“As a Kingsguard, I'm not that practised, at pleasuring girls.” Jaime grinned.

“You never squandered yourself on whores, as your brother did. Shouldn't be difficult: you are still young, vigorous, and can cut a fine figure: girls like that.” He appraised critically his son; to Lord Tywin even aesthetics was a matter of self-discipline.

“I'm hardly in my best condition. Tell me, father, how do they love stumps? Just the sight should make them wet.”

His father paid him no heed. “Trim your beard: the Rose of Highgarden is to marry a Lannister, not a wildling. Besides, she was meant for Renly, and I take she is not going to be overly demanding. I trust she will not find you faulty.”

“Nice battle plan. You make a bedding look like military operations.”

“Not all battles are won with swords. You will acquit yourself better than in the last one you botched. I'm expecting of you another performance with Margaery Tyrell.”

Who, to her credit, proved a fortress not unwilling to be taken

 

#### Margaery

“What's wrong with Jaime Lannister? Is he... Kind? Don't be silly, child. Tell me.”

“He is very kind, grandma.”

“It would be foolish of him not to be, I tell you: he is much older than you, so he'd better behave. So he is kind, is not a fool... Why that face?”

“Fine, but there are rumours... His reputation is somehow questionable.”

“Kingslayer? Runs in the family, it would seem. At least, he stepped down from the chair: a man you can trust for not suffering from your father's Iron Throne infatuation. I'll never understand whence Mace got the disease; when I was prospected a Targaryen, I had the sense to decline. Besides, when I was still one, girls would drool over a man with an awful reputation.”

“Would their family prospect such men to them as eligible husbands?” Margary replied pouting.

“Are you being fussy, Margaery? He was considered one of the most good-looking young men when... When I was not that old.” Lady Olenna patted her grandaughter arm. “He lacks a hand, I know; but as far as Lannisters go, he is not at all bad. Your Jaime is short a hand, Joffrey was short-witted, Tyrion... Short. Come to think on it, that Tywin guy is the only whole lion in stock. Just past his prime, and still taut; I had half a mind....”

“But grandma: he is like sixty!”

“Too young for me, Margaery? Don't be impertinent!” Lady Olenna waved at her a bony finger. “Would rather add _another_ Baratheon king to your white marriages collection? Tommen is only a good child who does what he is told – by now; even Mace was a good child who heeded his mama, he spoiled once he decided he was a man grown. He will never stand for you; and he has still to grow the most useful parts of a man. With no consummation, your wedding can be lightly voided, and your position would be little safer than Sansa Stark's has been.”

Margaery was still unconvinced.

“Better a lion in the hand than two stags in the bush: act wisely, like the clever girl you are, and you will have him wrapped around your finger in a snap.”

#### Cersei

“Even in weeds, you are comely, Cersei, and in spite of... Some exotic penchants, but Dorne must be allowed rules of its own – _to Robert's credit, my late husband had little to no interest in stableboys -_ the Prince is by no means unresponsive to feminine charms, and willing and able to get a woman with child.”

_The gall to take his own paramour at court, and a whole litter of by-blow princesses vouch loudly his marital worth._

“I'm still mourning for Joffrey, and I'm in no mood for marriage.”

“All the more, Cersei. Wed: it will do you good. You need a husband’s support, to comfort your sorrow. You lost a son; be glad you are still of an age to bear other children. A new born baby is the best care for a mother's grief; and for Stannis' slanderous lies.” Lord Tywin stared unflinching at her. “A jet black eyed, raven haired one.”

“I'm deeply moved by your concern with my happiness, father.” Cersei replied sourly. “In present trying times, the Hand of the King shouldn't trouble himself with such trifling matter.”

“You are my own daughter: no trouble at all. I take you will agree Oberyn Martell is a suitable choice for you: his title has a nice ring to it, and he a seat at the small council. You well know how I always judged Genna's marriage a disgrace to hour house, even if I admit she now does not seem that displeased with her weasel in tow. It's up to you, Cersei, but if I can help it, I'd rather not have you married off to a lesser lordling: it seems to me it would be below your queenly station.”

_Snake stew or weasel soup? What a treat! You make it difficult for me to choose. Was it you, father, who promised me Rhaegar Targaryen?_


	4. Integer I

Jaime has never had much use for patience; and the precious little he has, is wearing thin. How is he supposed to get rid of his wife's shift dainty knots: rose-shaped, go imagine, the Others can take the Tyrrels, their gardens and all their flowers, and likely a nightmare to unravel even with both hands, when he can scarcely handle his own breeches laces?

“Let me help you.” Her delicate fingers untie the flimsy ribbons in no time.

He grins “I'm better skilled at slashing knots.” At least, he was when he still had a sword hand.

Jaime feels gawkier and more lacking in his castle, in his room, in his bed than on the training yard.

But this can't be helped; he met the price his father set: the Rock, and Lady Margaery. A Lannister always pays his debt. Lord Tywin has kept his part of the contract; it's up to Jaime, now, to honour his own, and the deal has to be sealed with the bride's maiden blood. A young, high born, and pretty – very pretty wife, Casterly Rock, its might and its gold, is not what most men would call a toll; but Jaime Lannister is not any man. His White Sword has been his whole life; his sword, and his sister. He has renounced to them both; to him, relinquishing has always been the easiest path, since he surrendered his birthright to join the Kingsguard; since he killed King Aerys, and discarded his throne; since he fathered three children, who have never called him father.

He knows why he married Margaery – he knows his price: Tommen, his king - _his son_ , to be fostered as his ward in Casterly Rock, and he will never regret what he has to pay for him; but can't help wondering what is hers; he can't fathom what Margaery Tyrell really wants. As she could have a say in it, more than Cersei did. Rather the Tyrells' price. He can't stifle a snort at the sheer absurdity of a cripple, and a worthless, maimed and no longer White Sword, as the most eligible bachelors in the Seven Kingdoms; one of them being her own brother, the Tyrells had no other choice but marry Margaery off to him.

Jaime really wishes to make it good for her; he had to live with Cersei’s resentful battered look every time she shared bed with Robert, and the scathing glances she cast her husband. He can't abide the same glares upon him, and the idea of hurting his wife makes him sick. He is not Robert, he will not play his part; he would loathe himself for being like him.

He tries to recall his first time with Cersei; their first time, but he really can't: somehow, there has never been one. He can't remember how, and when, innocent plays turned out not innocent any more; there has never been a before, nor an after. Just inside: us, and outside; where others -aliens, foes, everyone who is not us - lie. He will never be whole again. The woman in his bed is an alien; and how just squirting in her cunt could turn the two of them into an us, is something Jaime can't quite make out; nor being a unity with her is anything he wishes for.

She feels wrong - that is, unlike Cersei, and he feels awkward. Aroused as he is, he can't bring himself to kiss her. Margaery tenses at his off hand clumsy, half-hearted touches.

“I guess it's your first time?”

“Almost.” Margaery replies faltering.

“Almost?” Jaime sneers, thinking of Renly. “Easy, lass. Same could be said for me.”


	5. Integer II

Ere sun rises, Jaime wakes, on the very edge of his bed and nearly tumbling from it, with an arm draped across him, and a hand resting butterfly light on his chest, but heavier on him than his golden one, now straining painfully his shoulder; for he didn't remove it as usual the night before in a pathetic attempt to look whole to his wife. Margaery is still asleep and is nuzzling his side, and a small smile curls up her mouth. A new husband should find endearing and flattering such closeness, and her claiming him as her own after their first night, but Jaime does not delude himself: he has let go of self-deceit, and their bodies arrangement tells a different story. She managed to evenly sprawl on most of the bed, large enough to sleep four, leaving him only an uncomfortable swathe; Margaery is wont to share bed with her cousins, and admittedly to snuggle close to them. Jaime is not, and while sleeping he inadvertently retreated to the farthest corner from her, and she as unaware chased for him, blindly looking for warmth. As a man-at-arms, he is used to sleep everywhere and at any time, if need be, but he has always lain alone on his cot in a bare White Tower cell, so small the huge crimson brocade canopied bed he is lying on now could hardly fit, and the grand manner of the Rock Lord's and Lady's chamber doesn't quite make up for the loss of personal space. Even with Cersei, they have only shared bed when they were children, before mother knew; and since he became a Kingsguard he has merely snatched some sleep with her, before Robert woke from his drunken slumber, before his watch began, for a soldier can wake at will.

The sun is rising; and a slanting shaft of pale light gilds her brown locks, and reminds him of his sister; but it's only a deceitful reprieve; even their position was different: their limbs entangled in one knot, loose golden hair draping them in the same cascade. Jaime can scarcely breathe, Margaery's hand weight on him stomach pins him down; he doesn't dare wake her, nor can he sleep again, though tired. He tilts warily his head and glances at the trinkets and sundries clustered on his wife's bedside table; during previous night operations, they must have switched sides, and in the blink of an eye Lord Tywin stares at him from a flowery frame. Growing a beard, shorn of hair, and of his smug smile, he looks almost like is father, and not at all like Cersei. He hopes he will make of Tommen a better man than he is.

The thought of Cersei, of lying with her, makes him half hard again; here at the Rock, everything his going to remind him of his sister, but the closest thing to her he can get is jerking off with his off hand he has left, and he tries to will it away. Calling his wife Cersei, imagining she were her won't do; he won't step in Robert Baratheon's uncomfortable boots, and he quite managed not to think of his twin - mostly; nor has he called her Margaery last night. There is no one else he could call by first name, but his sister. The body whimpering and writhing beneath him wasn't his other self, his mind just blanked out, and he huffed a pitiful muffled 'wife' while filling her with his seed. _Not what we would call brilliant; yet his father always cared more for results than for style: a bloody mess, but he got the job done._ Just 'wife', and Jaime can't tell if she would hate him - if he deserves to be hated - more for that than for calling her with another's woman name.

Margaery stirs, and he stretches to win back some room.

“I hope to be a good wife, and to give you soon a son.”

 _If you only knew: you already did._ He feels oddly grateful and is on the point of letting slip something close to the truth, but settles instead for “I'll be a good husband to you.” He can't really believe he will. Lannisters lie. Another lie, golden and fake as his hand. He reaches for her, with his stump, and stops halfway. _For hands of gold are always cold, but a woman's hands are warm…_ He thinks better of it and doesn't touch her. Of course, she misunderstands his intentions.

“Did I please you, my lord husband?” Margaery asks playfully, and offers. “I have been told men can have... Needs of their own.”

“Don't strain yourself over it.” The lass has been trained for Renly's, he wonders again. “I have been in the Kingsguard since I was a boy. As your brother, and my former sworn brother as well, puts it, man who dons white breeches, best learns to keep them laced: we have to keep to our vows.” Most of them, he broke, and will not rue for having done so now.

“So your _almost_ was before you joined the Kingsguard?”

“It was.” She was the main reason I joined in; and honour and glory as well, though they played a lesser part. Once he lost her _too_ , it made little sense wearing longer his whites.

“Was she very beautiful?”

“I surmise so.” She is still, and will always be. Any flaw she could have, he would find other women faulty for lacking it.

“Loras said you were even younger than him when you took the white... How old were you when you almost -”

“Very young.” Jaime cuts her short, and his voice trails off: if she asks where, what could he answer? Here, at the Rock, and betray his sister? Lie to his wife? He has already betrayed them both. _Wish I could keep an oath, for a change._ He realizes how old he must look to Margaery's eyes; so old she almost can't believe he has ever been young. “Even younger than you.”

“And you had no other woman, since?”

Those Tyrells are a tiresomely pushy, grabby and nosy lot: as much said Cersei. Jaime sighs. “Apart from my _almost_? You only.”

It seems to be the required answer, and Margaery is at last contented with her inquiry. Jaime moves gingerly to the centre of the bed. She curls up against him, lays her head on his chest, a hand on his shoulder, wraps her other arm around his side, and closes her eyes. In a wink, she is asleep, with that rosy smile of hers tugging at her lips. Now, he has a clue as to her price. Margaery Tyrell won't let go of her properties. Jaime Lannister is hers, and she will make sure he stays so.


	6. The Lion's Mouth

“Isn't it awesome, Your Grace?”

“Awesome? Frightfully so!” Shouts Margaery, to make her heard above the din. “Let's go back inside, Jaime, please. The wind howls so fiercely!”

“It roars. We are lions, not wolves, aren't we, Tommen?”

The king is scared too. They are on Casterly Rock battlements, overlooking a jutting bluff, so sheer it's almost like flying, or rather standing on a prow mast, for they are on a finger of land poking into the sea. Wind wails as wild as the waves below, and the surging billows lash the Rock as they were to pass overhead, so high water sprays on the walls. The air is tangy and bracing; so different from King's Landing rotten, stifling sweetness. James inhales deeply: to him there is nothing more beautiful, if not Cersei crying his name – the raging sea whirls like the fire in her green eyes when he is inside her.

The merlons crowning the walls are sitting lions facing the sea, carved in weathered purple granite; gilded shields shine high on their rumps, fashioning a sort of high-backed saddle. Many a time he and Cersei climbed atop and sat astride, to hail a convoy of ships leaving Lannisport, or their father's banners coming back from King's Landing.

“It will be like riding a dragon,” Cersei convinced him the first time. They dislodged a seagull perched on a lion head; it soared up cawing indignantly then plummeted down and plunged into the sea. _If lions could grow wings, break themselves free from the castle bulk and take flight._ Sometimes Jaime wakes up with the whole Rock pressing on him, but it's only Margaery Tyrell's soft hand on his heart.

Jaime lifts Tommen up to a crenel so he can take in the breathtaking sight, and holds him tight while his son winds arms about his neck.

“Breath it. Close your eyes; can you hear it?”

“The sea is saying HEAR ME ROAR!  
House Lannister words: the sea sound you can hear in a seashell.”

Wind hushes for a while.

“Maester Creylen says in a seashell we hear our heart pulse, Lord Uncle.”

Tommen is undoubtedly a dedicated pupil. _Cersei and I were a far cry from it: whom did you take after, child? An indiscretion with Tyrion, sweet sister?_ He laughs inwardly at the preposterous chance.

“Can you feel my heart beat, Tommen? Steady, and mighty: such is the sea; such we Lannisters are.”

At his every beat, Jaime hugs his son tighter; and Tommen, who is still a bit frightened, steadies his pulse as well.

“'A Lannister always pays his debts', it's known, but it's not the Tooth gold who makes us who we are.” Oft times Jaime just hates gold: the gilded armour he wears no more, Cersei’s golden locks, for someone else to caress, and most of all his golden hand. “In our hearth, crimson blood throbs with the sea pace.”

Tommen nods, and Jaime would like to kiss his son curls. “You have been very brave, Your Grace.” The roaring wind blows away most of what he says; he eases the king down, and presses his hand on his shoulder leading him downstairs.

“Were you very brave, Ser Uncle?” Tommen looks up to him and Jaime smiles winningly back.

“Of course he was, Your Grace: your uncle was a White Sword, and who bravest, in the Seven Kingdoms?” Margaery says proudly, and Jaime fears she could say once too many, with a glance at the two of them, 'You will make a wonderful father. '

“As a child, I mean.”

“I was; and your mother, even more.”

He got punished for climbing the lion-shaped merlons, when it had been her idea instead, but it didn't matter, since they were twins, and he couldn't think anything Cersei hadn't thought a heartbeat before, and they were one, and he could not really tell, truth be told, whose notion it was.

“Even King Robert, your father, was so brave.” Margaery offers. “You will surely be a very brave king as well.”

Brave and bold, that's good and well; but Jaime is not that sure bravery ought to be reckoned as the utmost kingly virtue.

Margaery turns to him. “Every time I look at you and Tommen together, I see the wonderful father you will be. I didn't supposed you were as such a...”

“Poet? Dreamer? Fool?” He casts an emerald gaze at her. “I'll tell you a secret, my lady. All the boys, around a certain age, are; many go as far as to dream of a White Sword. You should know; as I recall, your brother suffers from my same disease.”

He is not allowed any more to wear a White Cloak, and sorely misses it: in King's Landing, he wore more Lannister colours than a Kingsguard should have, and now he longs for his whites. He still feels a Kingsguard to the bone, even more so now, no longer entangled in the capital knots, ties and ploys; here is only task is to protect the king.

“Boys about your _almost_ age, my lord?”

“If you wish. The lucky ones, find out on the training yard they are just average, so they learn a trade, or set off to see the world, maybe get a girl with child, and life goes on.”

A step is unsteady, and Jaime desultorily offers her his golden hand. She accepts his useless help and presses lightly on his forearm. He flounders, so Margaery breaks in.

“The not so lucky ones, such as Willas, trample on a viper, or rather a viper trampled on him.” _Lady Olenna, through and through. I'd love to reach Walder Frey's age, just to see your sweet self grow thorns._ “Hewas even a better jouster than Loras, according to Garlan. ”

“If you are too good for your own good - for some, the _almost_ age never goes by: they might even get a White Sword.”

The wind, after subsiding for a while, rises again stronger; and they walk down silently the last steps as a brown shape crosses hurriedly the yard, bracing against the gusts, and moves to meet them.

“Maester Creylen will scold me. I didn't realize we were late for your lessons, Tommen.”

“I'm the king. I'll _command_ him not to.”

“Your Grace, well met. My Lord, a raven from King's Landing.” The maester digs a letter from his sleeve. “Congratulations on your sister's marriage.”

Creylen leaves with the king, to let him read. “Unbent, unbowed, unbroken. Which house words are these?”

“House Martell, maester.”

“ _Nymeros_ Martell.” The maester corrects him. “Your Grace should better remember it; and their arms?”

“A sun, pierced by a spear, and Sunspear is Dorne capital. I wish all the other houses were that easy to remember!”

Jaime can't wait to reach his solar, clenches it with his off hand and tries pointlessly to smooth out the letter with his golden one against the gusty wind. Margaery takes the other edge of the sheet, and they read together.

As his guardian, his duty is to accompany Tommen in King's Landing to preside over his mother's wedding and for an heartbeat, Jaime anticipates a chance to see her. They draft apart, they bandied harsh words, nothing could ever be the same again, but all of that would be forgotten and set aside the moment he sets his lips on hers, if only for a short time, and he doesn't hope for more than that.

_The nuptials will be celebrated at the Water Gardens, following the Dornish custom._

Not even a madman would risk taking the king to Dorne, whose doubtful loyalty often borders uprising – not even Robert dared, and he didn't love anything more than presuming on his subjects hospitality, and making the eight anew, whenever he grew tired of King's Landing whores - and he won't leave Tommen's side.

_He might never see his sister again._

“You are not pleased. I can understand your disappointment: the Martells...” Margaery purses her lips, and wags her heads.

“You should be happy your brother is now Lord Commander.” He replies wryly.

“It doesn't say so.” Margaery looks at him puzzled, and goes on reading, while Jaime blankly stares through an arrow loop to a patch of sea; there is nothing more he wishes to know.

She turns the sheet. “Wait... How could you possibly know about Loras?”

He just sneers. “I know my father.”

_He is a man who knows how to lose battles to win the war._

“Mine hinted Her Grace could marry Willas, so we all should be one family.”

“My sister, I'm afraid, has never been fond of cripples.” He replies with a thin smile.

_Cersei would sooner wed a pig boy, than saddle herself with anyone the likes of me; or rather throw herself, hot wet and panting, in the Snake's pit._

“I grew up with a cripple brother. They always say I'm close to Loras, of course I love him dearly, for all his fiery temper, but he was mostly away, serving as a squire and then riding tourneys while Willas couldn't leave home with his leg. I was so little, when your _good-brother_ maimed him – I'm glad there will be no wedding in King's Landing, I wonder how I could have possibly excused myself - I can hardly remember him walking without crutches; he never scooped me up, as Garlan did, to show me the pattern of a newly flowered parterre when I wasn't tall enough to reach a window. All in all Willas, despite our age difference, is very special to me. ”

“I meant no offence to him. Last I looked, I was a cripple myself.”

He feels ashamed for hurting Margaery about her favourite brother, but she gleefully goes on.

“Even Willas has his faults; he is a bit pedantic; no, I'm partial to him: he is _exceedingly_ pedantic! but really sweet. I guess I've grown a soft spot for broken things: maybe that's why I'm so fond of you too.”

Jaime is taken aback, and for once does not know what to make of that.

He realizes his daily life is no longer as taxing as it was before. Margaery is in charge of his household – she loves being in charge, and meat on his trencher is always sliced to morsels, after she flayed the table servants just the round, thorough way her grandmother Olenna would, and the new set of glasses – an extravagance from Myr, but what good was it to be as rich as a Lannister, she told - just refuse to topple.

 _Lannister colours. A crimson smear of Dornish sour, on a stain of Arbor gold_.

He finds easier to come to terms with his condition with Margaery, for she can't remember, nor reminds him of how he was before he lost his sword hand. To her, Jaime Lannister is the maimed man he is now.

At first, he took the right side of the bed, so that his stump ugliness was the farthest from her, but Margaery insisted they changed side, so he could easily reach his bedside table. There is nothing of his own, though, nothing he needs to reach on it, apart from his golden hand he resolved at last to take off: if not well rested, for he can't easily sleep surrounded by Margaery's tendrils, at least he will not rise up sore.

A flowers embroidered doily rambled stealthily to his night table, followed by a small pomander, emblazoned as well with the mandatory roses: if he favoured bold surprise attacks, his wife is a rather a firm believer in what his father would call 'take up a strong position'. He wasn't entirely wrong, as far as military operations went: he must have known it first hand, and how Lord Tywin could abide being ruled by his wife as the saying goes, Jaime can't even imagine. Margaery, for all her coyness and her giggles, is likely the sort of lion-tamer lady Joanna was.

To hide his hideous stump, he resorted to wearing the finest cambric nightshirts. _Did Renly ever use one? I could prove a better trend-setter than him._ None reached morrow unscathed, for Margaery was far from thrilled and did not even troubled herself to pull them up, but tore them literally with deliberate fingers, till Jaime blurted out.

“Torn cambric screeches nicely, don't you agree? I guess that's why you don't bother unlacing it. Its' not that difficult; even I could manage to do it single-handed.”

“Could you, my lord? I have wondered. If so, will you be as kind as to see to it before you come to my bed?” She replied. “Men have scars, women mysteries.”

His secret, though is more fearful than his scar, and he will ward it closely; for he doubts Margaery could accept it as easily. Jaime leaves it at that, and let Margaery nestle up to him, her curls tickling his side.

_How stupid of me. If she liked the feel of cloth under her head, she would use a pillow._

The gods must have a queer sense of humour. He is even feeling for her a mild sort of affection, that only makes the whole absurdity of it far worse, more painful than he could have figured, and just so damn _wrong_.

Sometimes, Jaime Lannister is positively jealous of Willas Tyrell.

_I wish you were my sister, lass._

 

  


 

 


	7. White Lies

Every move is a pain and Jaime pillows wearily his head on his crooked stump as he smothers salve on the wheals pattern Ser Addam wrought on him. After being thoroughly battered by him, he usually retreats to his childhood bedchamber not to wake up Margaery; he likes best to tend his injuries and brood over his defeats alone, but tonight is too aching and tired to reach a room his lady mother saw to displace the farthest from the main keep.

While helped out of his armour, he mumbled bashfully “You beat me bloody. I've been awful, Addam.”

“Can you remember when you let your sister try your sword?”

“How old were we?” Jaime couldn't help a chuckle. “Cersei was not that bad, for a girl shy of ten who had never wielded a weapon before.”

Casterly Rock without her feels so strange, so unnatural he looks forward to leaving for Riverrun. Her lack aches as his phantom fingers.

“She was _your_ twin.” Marbrand softly smiled while unbuckling him. “Jaime, the Lord of the Rock needs not to be the first swordsman in the realm: Lord Tywin never had to storm the walls after he was twenty. Your father, and Stannis Baratheon as well, the most feared commanders in Westeros, always lead from their hosts rear.”

 _Are you that hopeless, Ser?_ Addam was trying to cheer him up, all the while saying him kindly he'd better forget about it.

“Why use siege towers, when a lute would better serve?” _Maybe it's what I'd better pick up: even one-handed, I can't be more useless than with a sword._ “How does it go? And who are you, the proud lord said...”

“You should give it a try with the Riverrun stalemate.”

“Brynden Tully will not dance to our tunes, I'm afraid.”

“Only a trout of a different coat...”

“In a coat of blue or a coat of red...”

“A fish has always fins...”

They left the torchlit training yard - the Lord of the Rock has too much ado during the day, and isn't keen on public displays of his present performances – walking arm in arm and loudly whistling the Castamere rains.

“By rights, it should fall upon Lord Baelish to sort things out: as Lord of Harrenhal, he is in charge of the Riverlands, and to top it all he wedded an old trout.”

 _How sweet: at least two people managed to make good of a lifetime dream and wedded their first true and seemingly impossible love._ Jaime remembers the way Lysa giggled at Petyr at Riverrun, when he was sent there under a thin pretext to meet with the girl his father meant as his betrothed, and would stake his golden hand their affair has been going on steadily even in King's Landing. No one else took notice of their stolen glances, while they acted too much as they were only childhood friends grown up together, and Jaime wondered if he and Cersei were as blatant to Petyr's eyes. Whenever he came across Littlefinger's all too knowing smile, he could read an answer he misliked.

“Petyr Baelish couldn't run a siege better than I could a ledger.” Jaime snorted. “Pray the Warrior he stays in the Vale: we are already encumbered by a host of blundering incompetents in our camps.”

“At least, he has the sense to stay out of the way.”

“Trust good old Lord Petyr, for staying sensibly out of troubles. I would fain let him deal with the paperwork; every day I get more ravens than I care to count, from Devan, Lord Uncle of Riverrun, random Freys it doesn't bear remembering, there are too many of them, begging for more men, more arms, more money; and of course from aunt Genna, urging me not to mind their nonsense and to busy myself instead making little copies of Jaime Lannister.”

Addam has to laugh at Jaime's whingings. “Hard is lordly life.”

“She may have the right of it; by the way Riverrun siege is dragging, it will be over the day my unborn heir comes of age. Wish two accounts I received fitted together: I understand it's quite a boring affair, and they must spice up a thin fish bones broth with lusty helpings of fancy storytelling. I have a good mind to send Ser Brynden a raven, asking him how the siege is really going on: he is the only one who knows the business, as it seems.”

The best thing would be build up a dam, drown Riverrun along with the siege camps, wash away a few Freys, wolves turned to lions, lions to bleating goats, and if the gods are good even some packs of raving wolves, stray dogs, or even wildlier men who lost their master; though gods seldom are. _His father has unleashed his beasts from the kennels, and left up to him to clean up the muck._ Appealing as it might sound, nonetheless, razing the land bare is not going to restore the king's peace.

“I doubt the Blackfish will have the grace to comply.”

“So do I; and I'll see to it in person, and get things done once and for all. I take you will enjoy some real action, instead of jabbing at me. I'm hardly better than a straw dummy.”

Still, Jaime won't give up. He decided the king should learn to fight with his left too, and he shall take upon himself to train him, even if a king has less use for a sword than a High Lord, and Tommen is quite bookish. He came to understand to some extent his own father's bitterness over him; his ambition for him – a son, to carry on his name, to follow his footsteps; his resentment for Aerys – who bereft him of his heir; his steely unyielding will, till he left the Kingsguard. As he was wont, Tywin Lannister got what he wanted, and he submitted and accepted _everything,_ the Rock, his name, his heritage; but Jaime himself has nothing he can leave to his son: because his name, his heritage would lose him everything, and his past skill is but a faded memory.

\--o--

She stirs.

“Sorry I woke you up, Margaery.”

“You didn't. I wasn't asleep, but waiting for you.”

“You shouldn't have. I was practising with Marbrand.”

“What are these, my lord?” Margaery traces a bruise on his chest.

“Love marks?” Jaime hisses.

“You jokes about everything, but what I heard about her is quite nasty. Why had you to bring back from Harrenhal such a sweet keepsake? I'd take you'd sooner forget about that dismal castle.”

“In Harrenhal I donned a White Cloak: my first and biggest mistake. I'd better be reminded of it, lest I forget and commit others.”

_Pia's recollections of Harrenhal are likely worse than mine._

Margaery scowls disapprovingly. “You should see to stifle such rumours; instead, you enjoy boosting them. Don't you care for your honour? What if news of it reach King's Landing?”

Lord Tywin would not approve of it, under other circumstances, but as of now the tidings could even please him. If Jaime is openly using a camp follower now he has a wife, for a certainty he must have used one – or more – discreetly before, when he was a Kingsguard. _Give them yarn to spin. Had I gone openly whoring with Robert, or Tyrion, instead of keeping faithfully to her only, Stannis wouldn't have soiled our name -our love- with filthy slanders._ Such is the way of gossips: the farther from truth the tale, the more easily it is believed. He and his honour parted long ago, anyway, and never looked back.

“Let them caw. Peck is quite taken with her.” Jaime shrugs – or he would, didn't it hurt so badly. “As the Lord's supposed mistress, they will leave her be.”

“Supposed? She looks up to you like Jonquil to her Florian.”

He hopes she will not think of him when she is with Peck; yet, Jaime acknowledges he _cares_ for how Pia looks at him. “I wouldn't have joined the Kingsguard, if I didn't like playing the shining knight. ”

“Your _play_ is an insult to me. She is but a camp follower. Belonging to one only, it's not going to make any difference for to the likes of her.”

“All the difference in the world.” He whispers with a teasing smile, but his voice sounds less mocking than he would like it. To him it makes - it _made_ as much. He is growing fond of Margaery; he is even grateful to her, but she is not where he belongs.

She sighs, takes a pot from her bedside table and opens it; it faintly smells of roses and camphor. “Put your ointment away.”

She daubs it, her fingers are as deft as light, from his collarbone trailing down to his chest, and Jaime willingly yields to her touches.

“I guess you are used to help your brother Loras?”

Sometimes even Cersei did, but she liked his unmarred skin and hated everything that could mark him different from her. Above all, he never got badly beaten, _before._

“Love bites, are they?”

“They will heal in no time.”

He feels Cersei's marks deep under his skin; where it doesn't show, and hurts harder.

“You should sport mine only. Let's make it true.”

She meted out kisses, caresses and rose-salve in turn, till Jaime, yet on a ridiculous battle high with no feasible excuse for it, feels himself absurdly responding. Margaery will notice soon, and she is not one to leave conjugal debts unpaid: she takes his length between his hands and makes him full hard.

Jaime let his wife straddle him. He is too sore and worn out; he doesn't like being in control so much as to care and taking the lead is hardly worth the effort. Somehow he prefers it so; he is already in charge of the Rock, of Tommen, of restoring despolied lands and by now he is fully aware of the toiling difference between taking what he wanted, as he was wont to, and getting what he wants.

Margaery can have her due, and he leaves her to her own devices. She is way bolder than a new bride should be by rights; sure enough, such boldness has been bolstered rather than curbed, and for a certainty, after their disagreement, she maintains he has good reasons to plea for her forgiveness and to meekly comply to her wishes.

He just runs his thumb on the small of her back, and doesn't know what to do with his stump, so just move it not that far from where her left props. He easily fits himself at her waves pace, till she clenches her hips and Jaime shudders his release.

For a while he stays inside her after going limp; he knows Margaery likes it – or rather she _expects_ this of him. Not anything that was allowed very often, with Cersei, who, on her score, wouldn't be pleased at his niggard involvement, while his wife is. Margaery wilfully reads his behaviour as she sees better fit.

“My shy, beautiful lion.”

“Margaery...” Jaime is too embarrassed at her endearments and finds himself at loss for words. “You are so young, so pretty...” He tries desperately not to hurt her. “So in love with love.” In love with _him_ , that wasn't supposed to happen; he shouldn't have allowed it: a double cheat, deceiving her and Cersei both. “I'm too old to look at you as Florian would at Jonquil.”

_I can't love you, lass._

Even if she fits herself against him uncomfortably close and pressing on some sore spots – as there were many that weren't – he is so exhausted he drifts off without realizing. Jaime dreams of his wife, of draping the protection cloak about her shoulder; but the bridal cloak is white, not the Lannister's one; and Margaery almost looks like Ser Loras. He swore to protect her, as he was sworn to protect Aerys.

The only life he knew – Cersei, the Kingsguard – is like something happened a thousand years ago to someone else, a haunting ghost, painful as his lost hand. Tommen is the only thing connecting him to it; and he will lose him too soon enough, when the king comes of age. He doesn't know what will be of him thereafter.

Setting the lands aright, he is good at it. He cannot say he _likes_ the job, but he likes doing it well: Jaime is still too much Lord Tywin's son, and if he has to do it, he will have it cleanly done. He has never been sloppy about his duty; it's the only thing that kept him a thin semblance of self-respect, when he served only worthless kings, a bloodthirsty madman, a drunken whoremonger, who he never respected; one he killed, the second he cuckolded.

His wife, to his own amusement, thinks he is a good husband. _Always been good at play pretending, since I cross-dressed with Cersei when we were children. As a little girl, I was far better than her._ It doesn't take much, actually – self-possession, his father would say: Jaime learned discipline from him, and more from his years as a Kingsguard - mostly, dutifully fucking her at night, and being marginally decent during the day; on a more personal note, Margaery seems to appreciate his sense of humour.

Yet to Jaime Lannister, it's just a sorry apology of life; it's like living someone else's life, not his own. It's living a lie. His true life was a sword dancing in his hand, courting death in every move, spinning around it, in every blow dealing it out.

His true self was Cersei.


	8. Green eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myrcella, on her wedding day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story lay forlorn for years, for it didn't fit in the plotline (which is actually more a series of one-shot), but after Got season 6 I felt the urge to give Myrcella her happy ending, so I revamped it

It has been years he has not seen her; and the same unforgotten fever seizes him again, as soon as he steps into the Old Palace, as he breathes her same air, as he treads her own paths: he begs to meet her, alone. Her first times in Sunspear, jealousy bit him harsher than usual; for her lustful husband – who can hold his wine far better than Robert, and is not so easily gullible, for randy Dornishmen, and randier Dornishwomen too; but now he just needs her, and she could have bedded half Dorne and the Free Cities too and he wouldn't care. Cersei hasn't showed up yet, and maybe she never will, too busy with Myrcella's wedding. Jaime, though, can't find in himself to leave: lest she come, and he miss what could be, for all he knows, his last chance to fuck her, hard and well and truly, and hear her call out his name once more, and die on her, and feel alive again.

He waits for her in the shadows, still and soundless, blending in seamlessly with the surroundings. A secluded retreat, sheltered by overgrown vines, said Cersei, where nobody ever enters. Nobody; unless meaning mischief. By now he knows enough of the Martells' mores, and gathers this must be a favourite tryst spot.

A short run in the nearby terrace; whispers and laughters he can't make out. Even Cersei, now, speaks usually Rhoynar; and her soft skin is darker, her glorious mane sports silver highlights, which he would put down to the sun only. Dorne has marked her, in more ways than one, and he finds it quaintly befitting. Once upon a time, a time when he believed in dreams, in honour, in future, when Arthur Dayne believed in him, Jaime fancied everything Dornish, for no better reason than being Dornish.

A lifetime in a white cloak made standing unobtrusively a second nature, so he holds his service years relaxed yet alert stance. That's why they step in the dim archway - in Dorne sunlight is often shunned, to ward off the punishing heath – and brush past him without even noticing. A knight of the Kingsguard listens to everything and hears nothing: it's not the first time he overhears what he would rather not know, what he should better try to forget, what he never could, try as he might.

It's her second husband: Prince Oberyn, and Jaime assumes his hollow title was all it took for Cersei. He will never understand her lust for high-flown styles – the Prince of Dragonstone, the King, you name it. He is dubbed Kingslayer, when his father, who ordered the sack the same city that opened him its gates, is the Saviour of the City; Lord Commander - of the sorriest lot to ever don a white cloak, Shield of Lannisport and Warden of the West, charges he ran away from, even Ser – his honorifcis weigh upon him as lies, burden, failures.

Silver now contends with jet on Martell's head, yet he swaggers in with a jaunty bounce, holding by her waist a slender blonde not a third is age, attired in utmost finery; a veil hides half her face.

Jaime Lannister's heart skips a beat, and he feels dizzy as always before his twin: he would know that gait in a thong, it can only be _her_ , but twenty years younger. Belatedly he realizes it's Myrcella; she cuts teen Cersei's same figure.

_How like him to mess around with his step-daughter, to be married the same day; and to his own nephew on top._

I fucked my sister, on her wedding morning, recalls Jaime; and Myrcella is their child. Another nice family tradition; she could have picked kinslaying or kingslaying. _Heartwarming: our daughter takes after us in everything_. He feels like killing Oberyn Martell on the spot; but he lacks both a sword, and a hand to wield it.

“Snatched you out of the commotion, at last.” Mirth rings in his voice, as he sweeps her up to a frayed weed seat he has just dusted with his sleeve and demands. “Don't sneak away. We need to have a talk.”

Haphazard shafts of light dapple the dusty floor, catch motes dancing lazily, and outline their gazes, their smiles, their gestures against the dusky greenness.

“Myrcella _Baratheon_ , listen to me just once: you are now to enact the royal princess: but for a day, stop talking like you were bred and born in a Shadow City hovel! If you go for shanty neighbourhoods so be it, but least pull out a Flea Bottom gabble: you can't possibly drawl like that...”

She switches to the Common Tongue as well and tilts her head, dropping her veil. “Is it _you_ who presumes to teach me how _not_ to?”

The Prince's thick accent reminds him of his sworn brothers Lewyn and Arthur, whose drawled 'Raise, Ser Jaime' still rings into his ears. Any other time, he would have made fun of the dragged out vowels; but they added to the words solemness and sung aloud, for all to hear, the very Sword of the Morning made him a knight.

“Stay put: a curl out of place, Seven forbid... Your mother is already wrought up for the nuptials.” He laughs, and pins orange flowers on her dishevelled locks. “Lucky you I have some experience at fixing a messed hairdo on the run.”

“Rosamund couldn't be quicker.” She acknowledges.

“Whom do you think she learned the trick from?”

“Her too?” She chuckles back.

He locks eyes with her, no longer playful. “Are you really sure, Cella? I shall yet harry Doran for a delay.”

“Now? I am getting married in hours!” Tuts Myrcella. “Won't that cause troubles?”

“Too much time I didn't cause any of import. I'm getting old, and lazy.” He airily answers. “You are worth getting into troubles for. Both of you are so young...”

“Young we may be, but not utterly foreign to the ways of the world, as you would like us to believe.” Jaime can almost see a wicked glint in Myrcella's eyes. His same green flicker; but, gods be good, the Prince is right, now she drawls like any Dornish, and as loudly. She picks at a a wisp of grey hair on his temple. “Nor will we wait and say our vows before a Septonhoary and doddering as you were when you did...”

“A woman of the world, are we now, Princess Myrcella?” The Prince scoffs. “All in all, it's your own life, and I'd better leave it up to you. If you really... ”

“Yes, really-really.” She gushes. “Isn't he handsome? The Lady Mellario says he looks rather like you at his age, and since Trys splashed at the Pools he looked up to his uncle.”

“Shameless flatteries won't fool me, my Princess. I am not accountable for my nephew's marriage frenzy: in him I fear quite a lot of Doran, who dared a love marriage, only to spend the best part of it fighting with his wife, till they grew tired of their own yells.”

“I have been squabbling with Trystane since I set foot in Dorne.” Myrcella shrugs it off. “There is no one I love arguing with half so much, and the same goes for him. If we spend half of the time quarrelling and half making peace, we will be wholly happy in one another, don't you agree?”

Oberyn doesn't muffle his chortle. “What you agreed disagreeing on, pray tell?”

“I am all for a love match, but Trys would rather stick to tradition.” Myrcella pouts. “Lamest excuse ever: uncle Doran is not one I would call boldly unconventional.”

“Respect for the Prince of Dorne, girl.” He demands.

“Trystane has always been at variance with me on the matter, and keeps putting forth your arranged marriage with mother roughly works.”

“For we have never been overly involved with each other, had time aplenty for a wide range of mistakes before, and hopefully lost some misbegotten notions about married life along the way, learned at times indiscretions better be discreet, and -”

“Spare me your screed, maester.”

“And, tell him, it would work even rougher had I not grown good at dodging flying items.” Oberyn rubs thoughtfully a scab on his chin. “Still room for improvement, though; when she sets to it, your mother is more challenging than a hard-fought match. Ellaria should be the jealous one, but she understands a woman whose daughter is about to wed needs to be reminded often how desirable she is.”

How Cersei could ever get along with her husband's mistress, instead of clawing her eyes out, utterly mystifies Jaime; but she does, and well. Well enough to barely arch her brow and turn him a scowl when the youngest of the Prince's bastards asked Lordjaime if she could call him uncle. _As Myrcella does._

“No doubt where your marksmanship comes from; I won't fault your lacking skills if you let Trystane win battles by rights lost: I recall orange tasting kisses as the sweetest.”

“How do you know we staked kisses?”

“Blissful youth, as the world never truly existed before you...” He wags his head. “You were not the first who grew up at the Water Gardens, battled with blood oranges and played at kissing, till the play turned serious.”

“Who was her?”

 _Cersei_. So he would have to answer, if asked by his daughter.  The Prince is wrong, though; no one is more serious than children at play, and with her, everything has been in earnest from the beginning, before it even began, the whole world at stake, for his twin was all his world, and her image fills him, his eyes, his mind once more.

“A sorrowful story, unfitting for a wedding.” Martell's thickened voice rescues him from thoughts of Cersei.

“A first kiss with no less than the most beautiful woman in your days?”

“Not really: back then, she was mostly pimples and sharp angles.” He remembers with a sad fondness. “For all her violet eyes, Ash had yet to grow into the role.”

Memories of Harrenhal take him aback. Ser Barristan claimed Ashara Dayne as the worthiest of the crown of Love and Beauty, but Jaime was sure Cersei was the most beautiful woman ever - she still is – as he was he would win the tourney. His first glorious steps into manhood looked like walking into a golden dream; then everything went awry.

He should have never followed through her plan. His was more straightforward: leave everything behind, hunt for honour and glory in the Disputed Lands, build a life for themselves. _She in a fat merchant's bed, he an exile, soldiering for who would have him and longing for home; that's where most new lives in Essos end up to._ Yet, he still toyed with such fanciful picture on his way to Sunspear, and long enough to forget no one would hire a sellsword with no sword hand.

As if things turned out that different, Cersei is his true home and without her, living in Casterly Rock is exile to him, more than to Edmure Tully.

Oddly, Myrcella's train of thought heads toward the Sunset Sea as well.

“All the Westerlands agreed my grandparents would put Jonquil and Florian to shame.”

“I don't care for tales about Tywin Lannister. Is it him you take your cue from?” Oberyn snaps. “What I know of such marriages, is that Mellario's and Doran's love was too much to fit in the same kingdom with them both.”

“Be it as it may, I won't take the risk. As to arranged marriages, it's not like mother scored the best records. ” She bits her lips and hurriedly adds. “I mean...”

He pats her nape. “No offence taken. I know what you mean, but you can't fault him for being wary when his parents had to put the Narrow Sea between them.”

“I can see Trys's point, and we came to a mid-way agreement. Marriage is all about compromise, isn't it? We are having both: out of love or duty, one at least shall work.”

“Here in Dorne, the backup is usually a paramour.”

“Blame yourself: who did teach me to brave new paths? Everyone has the right to his own dreams, it would be unfair to ask Trystane to forsake his own for mine.”

“I am the reckless, the rash one, when reasoned men such as my brother... Was I ever as mad as to _dream_ of a love marriage? Nor of an arranged one, I concede.  You two are twice crazy and will have both at the same time, which is plainly an overload.” The Prince huffs and yields. “And I should know better and realize I reached the age of unwanted advice.”

Myrcella proves a gracious winner. “I hope in his forties he will be as handsome as you are.”

“Is it this serious, Cella,” the Prince knits his brow in disapproval, “You are already thinking of the two of you in a thirty years from now?”

She nods, with a still childish moue, and deadly serious all the same.

“If your mother is anything to go by, Trystane will have no reason to complain either.” Oberyn heaves a sigh. “For the poor boy's sake, don't be as jealous and leave him room to breathe.”

“He has been warned: if he tries to follow too closely in your footsteps, I am going to geld him.”

“Not quite what I meant by taking care of yourself, sweetling. Those are the most entertaining parts in a man and you don't want to act foolish.”

“Lions don't like to share: it's called lion's share for a reason. “

Aunt Genna, his own mother, and now Myrcella; lionesses will always want their men under their heels. _And Cersei, Cersei most of all._ Yet, his twin puts up bravely with her husband and constant infidelities he still makes a show of.

“Firstandforemost, you want a cool head. So my mother warned to Elia: don't fall too hard for your charming husband, if you want his respect... Advice best given Doran instead. If not me, heed your own mother: love is poison; a sweet poison, but a poison still.”

“Why? You love poisons, and showed me how to best handle them.”

Myrcella traces one finger over his cheekbone.

“What's it, a tear?”

“Allow me.” He takes her hand, and leans for a peck on her forehead. “You are the first one to tie the knot.”

“The others didn't dare disobey you.”

“ _Disobey_ me?”

“At least, go against your wishes.”

“Am I that feared, by my own daughters?”

She considers. “Worshipped would suit better.”

“I see. Clever child: I'm quite proud of you, you know?”

Myrcella hugs him tightly. “I know. You are the best father I ever had.”

His breath hitches, and he feels his phantom fingers clenching tightly the hilt of a sword he has not been wearing for years. Jaime Lannister braces himself while the room spins around; how can one be so stricken by the loss of something he never had? Yet, he has never known true jealousy before.

He watches his daughter darting off into the sun, her shape blotted out by the dazzle. The Prince follows at a more sedate pace, but soon stoop and scoop up a silken bundle.

“Wait: you cannot marry without a wedding cloak!” He waves the golden shawl, with perfunctory black trimmings in whose swirls no one would read a dance of prancing stags.

“Trystane won't mind, had I nothing on but a night shift.”

“Agreed. The Princeling would welcome you even without and naked as your nameday, but neither would he cherish a boring faithful wife. Keep mislaying your things here and there like a little girl who cannot look after herself, and you will never carry on an affair!”

“Why would I care for affairs? I am a married woman now, or I'll bee soon enough to make no matter.”

Their banters trail away, and Jaime is left only with a barely there scent of orange flowers, faint yet lingering like the ghost of long forgotten memories; maybe, it's just wafting in from the trees without.

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Lord of Two Queens](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7759453) by [OUATLovr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OUATLovr/pseuds/OUATLovr)




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